Merlin's Blade (20 page)

“She saw the practical side … bringing the two houses together and healing the blood-feud … But they say she soon fell in love as well.”

“And why do
you
know all this?”

Crogen's head tilted slightly, and he sighed. “Ah, Neot, a scribe like I … I wrote a history, you know. And now I'll have to write it again.”

Merlin somewhat reluctantly passed back the wool-wrapped sword to his father as they entered the village green near midmorning. It had been a privilege to carry it along with his small harp, which hung over his shoulder.

“Uther's here,” his father said, “and we've made it just in time. He and his wife are on a bench atop the Rock of Judgment.”

“Are the druidow here?”

“Only a few guarding the Stone.”

Finding a place at the back near the monks, they sat down on the long grass. Merlin found his father's hand, which trembled upon the cloth-covered hilt of the sword.

“It's been a long time since I've seen him, but Uther's barely changed. Stronger, with more hair, but he hardly looks different from when we parted.”

“And so, splendid lord,” Merlin heard Tregeagle say, “this man, this Pennar, has been seized by the men of Garrinoc. They would have tried him themselves, but their magister has died. Hearing of your coming, they sent him for your judgment rather than bothering Gorlas.”

“So it is better to bother me, then?”

“Esteemed lord, they considered your judgment of the more lasting type. It seems Gorlas has trouble making up his mind on such matters.”

“I am innocent!” Pennar pleaded, and his chains clinked as he held his hands out to Uther.

“What crime is he accused of, Magister?” Uther asked.

“Cattle thievery, my lord. Caught with three steers in his possession.”

“Did anyone witness the crime?”

“No, splendid lord, but —”

“Then how in a Pictish winter am I to judge? Surely someone —”

“I can speak, my lord,” spoke the nasally voice of a man who shuffled from the crowd and bowed low.

“And who are you?”

“I am named Kudor, my highly estimable majesty, and it was my cattle he stole. I lay asleep on a cold night and woke to hear bovinous lowing. Desiring still my warm pallet, I ignored it. In the morning, three of my prized cattle had been stolen, and the footprints led to my neighbor's house.”

“And did you find your three cattle there?”

The man belched. “No, goodly lord, there were but two.”

“Two? What of —”

“I can explain, my lord,” Tregeagle said. “One had already been roasted.”

“What do you say, accused?” Uther demanded. “Do you deny this?”

“No, my lord,” Pennar pleaded. “Kudor owed me the cattle these last four years. When I lent them, he'd just moved to our village, was poor, and I took pity.”

“Slander!” Kudor said, but Uther held up his hand.

“Pennar,” Uther asked, “why did you not bring this before your magister?”

“I did, my lord, but he was old and did nothing before he passed away, and King Gorlas failed to appoint a new magister. This winter my other cows caught the bloaty shakes and had to be burned. With no milk or meat, and little grain from a poor harvest, my family starved —”

“Punishment of the gods, my lord,” Kudor snorted.

“Pennar, have you proof of this debt?” Uther asked, leaning forward on the bench.

“Kudor's left forearm has three small scars marking the debt in the usual way.”

Kudor laughed as he rolled up his sleeve. “I paid it back two years ago. As you see, my lord, the lines are cross-scarred, signifying payment.”

“A lie,” Pennar claimed. “Never did I crosscut them. If the magister were alive —”

“Silence!” Uther said.

No one spoke for a while, and Merlin asked his father what was happening.

“Uther's examining Kudor's arm, and by its girth I'd say that man hasn't missed any meals.”

“Kudor,” Uther said. “I see the debt scars and the payment cross-scar, but what scar is this from under your sleeve?”

“That, my lord? A mere scratch.”

And Merlin heard him cough. Twice.

“Lift your shirt, man,” Uther said.

“My shirt?” Kudor's voice turned shrill. “How will that decide the present case?”

“Lift your shirt.”

“No sense, no sense, I say!”

Uther's bench creaked as he rose.

“Merlin,” Owain said, “Uther's jumped down from the rock, and the man's backing into the crowd. Hah! Uther grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic and is hauling him back. Wait … Uther's limping. I've never seen him limp before.”

Kudor blubbered as Uther ripped the man's shirt off.

“As suspected!” Uther said. “Not only has he been whipped for thievery, but — if I can tell from the different ages of the scars — thrice. Vortigern,” he commanded, “inspect the back of the accused.”

“It is clear, my lord. No scars.”

“I protest,” Kudor screeched.

Uther's bench groaned as he sat down again.

“He's conferring with his wife,” Merlin's father said.

After a few moments, Uther rose again. “The accused is to be set free. Kudor's cross-scar is recent, and he tried to hide his past thievery.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Pennar said.

“Colvarth! Where is my bard?”

“Tas,” Merlin whispered, “I didn't know there was a bard here. What's he like?”

“It's the same man who served Uther's father. I wouldn't have
thought him still alive. And his beard's twice as long since last I heard his harp.”

“Colvarth,” Uther said, “write a declaration of this man's innocence and my judgment that Kudor is to pay an honor price quadruple the theft.”

“No … I'll have nothing left!” Kudor pleaded.

“His family will be in poverty,” Pennar said. “Please, High King, change the judgment —”

“Have him whipped? Are you a fool?” Uther asked.

“Please. Just lessen the fine … in Jesu's name.”

Uther paused. “Because you claim this by the Christ, Pennar, the honor price will be reduced to double. Colvarth, please write that down.”

Colvarth's quill scratched on parchment as the bard wrote out the High King's decision. Then he spoke to the king, slowly. “Is … that all, my king?”

“No. Record as well that our merciful Pennar is to be the new magister of Garrinoc.”

Colvarth coughed. “King Gorlas might not be … pleased with the appointment. Is it not … better to ask him first?”

“Certainly not. Pennar will do nothing but please our Gorlas, and I will tell him myself when we see him.”

Pennar fell to his knees. “Oh, my great lord, I don't deserve —”

“Nonsense. We need able men in leadership. Mercy. Action. Faithfulness. Loyalty. Wisdom. All these I seek. Rise, Pennar. Shake off your bonds and instead receive this bronze torc of office from my hand.”

“Merlin,” Owain said, “it's my time. Before Uther goes on to something else. Come with me to the front. Here's the sword. Hold it till I call.”

They wended around the crowd, and Merlin felt his father's sweat drip down to their joined hands. Merlin's stomach felt as if he'd swallowed a frog. Would Uther think his father had been faithful? Loyal? Wise?

“Sit here,” his father told him. “And pray.”

O
wain ground his teeth and offered up an awkward prayer. How could he do this? He must be stupid to think Uther would forgive him for his desertion. He had spit on their friendship the day he'd run after Gwevian. Couldn't he have trusted God to save her
and
obey Uther? Had a right decision even existed?

But Owain had chosen her, and God in his grace had given them a few sweet years and a son of high character. And then she had died, leaving a rift in his heart that might never heal.

Uther had just taken his seat again, and Pennar stepped away with a timid smile.

Now was Owain's chance.

As he lifted his foot to take the first step toward the High King, Owain's heart quailed. If he didn't step forward, then Uther would never know his adversary stood in the crowd. Owain could slip into obscurity. Take his sin to his deathbed. Who would know?

Merlin would. And God would. Owain had been hiding for eighteen years, and the time had come to stand in freedom, whether Uther condemned or forgave him. Merlin had stood before Tregeagle and received punishment unjustly, with grace and strength.
Shouldn't I be willing to receive my own rightful judgment?

He strode forward, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

Before the inattentive Uther, Owain fell prostrate with his face to the horse-scented grass, saying, “Great Lord Uther. Your humble servant comes for your judgment.”

“And what complaint do you bring?” Uther said casually. “Has someone stolen
your
cattle?”

The villagers laughed.

“No, my lord. Rather, someone has a complaint against me.”

“A complaint against
you
? Where is your accuser? Maybe I scared him off.” This time it was Uther who laughed, and his wife tried to stifle her own mirth.

“My accuser is present, my lord, and he will soon make himself known.”

“Then accuse yourself,” Uther teased. “Ha-ha. Never did a man do that — except maybe Colvarth here!”

“My crime is that I forsook my friend and let him face death. And I did nothing to help.”

Uther stopped laughing.

“This is a serious thing before God,” the High King declared as he rose and limped slowly across the shelf of rock. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, my lord.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself? Why would you do such an ignoble thing?”

Owain's legs shook. “Great lord, if I may be so bold as to beg a question … Have you … have
you
ever had a friend forsake you?”

Uther stopped. And paced again. Faster.

Owain saw through his fingers the king limping back and forth and his gaze darting. His lips curled in one silent word:
Owain
. He
mouthed the word again. Soon the High King scanned the heavens and closed his eyes in a scowl.

Owain stood before Uther. “It is I … Owain … and I beg your forgiveness and mercy.”

Uther turned and pointed at him. “You,” he roared. “Deserter! You dare come before me?”

He jumped down, grabbed Owain by the tunic, and pulled him within inches of his face. The smell of mead was upon Uther's lips as he snarled and threw Owain backward.

Shocked by Uther's onslaught, Owain failed to catch his fall, and his breath was jolted away. The next thing he knew, he felt a blade at his throat and Uther's knee on his chest.

“Traitor! Why did you leave? You had us thrown out of Dinpelder, and then you left,” Uther hissed. “I've waited for this day.”

“I left for love.”

“And where was your love for me? For Barthusek? For Abrans? Their bodies and twelve-score more were eaten by crows while you ran away to what? Your
love
!” He spit out the last word.

“Her father tried to murder her. I had to —”

“You had to
what
?” Uther raged. “Make him so angry he'd send
his
warriors to attack our rear guard while the foe bled us at the front? Did you know he did that?”

Owain felt the blade bite into his throat. “She almost died!” His heart beat wildly, as if the ocean itself tried to burst from his chest.

“I almost died! I hobble because of that day. And with every step, I curse your name.”

“What could I have done?” Owain asked, and he felt hot tears escape his eyes and run down to his ears.

“Stood by my side!”

“We both might have died. And Gwevian as well.”

“Die with me, then!”

Igerna knelt beside her husband with a steady hand on Uther's sword arm. “Mercy, Uther,” she pleaded. “Did you not risk all for
me
? For my love?”

“That was different.” Uther swore, but the blade backed off, and Owain dared a breath.

“What price for
our
love?” she asked Uther. “What would you do to save
my
life?”

Uther leaped off Owain and away from his wife. He threw his sword into the tall grass and yelled on his way back to the Rock of Judgment, “A thousand Prithager! And you wouldn't stand beside me. Ahh! The death I saw that day.”

Owain sat up and wiped his eyes. “I'm sorry … I ask your forgiveness.” His gaze shifted briefly to the crowd, which looked on as if in shock.

Igerna returned to her place on the bench and looked to her husband, pity and hope reflecting in her eyes.

“As a token of my sorrow,” Owain said, “I bring you a gift.”

He called Merlin, who stood and stepped over to Owain. Receiving the sword from his son, he unwrapped it and held it carefully by the blade with the hilt aloft. Reflecting the morning light, its newly polished steel blazed forth before the silent crowd. Its bronze handle glowed warmly, and the red glass inlay on the guard and pommel shimmered before the High King's startled eyes.

“My lord, I failed to be the blade beside you, so I now offer you
this
blade. I am but a smith now. A swordsmith. And I give to you my most excellent work.”

Stepping forward, Owain placed the hilt in Uther's hand, then backed away.

Uther looked vacantly at the blade … and then his shoulders began to shake. He raised the sword up, and shouted, “I should strike your head off for all you deserve.” He threw the sword down on the Rock of Judgment with a clang and turned away.

Sadness rolled through Owain as part of his soul dashed away with the discarded sword. It had been bitter parting the first time. Could he bear it twice? How could he show his sorrow? Was there anything to break through Uther's pain?

Movement from behind caught Owain's eye. Colvarth, the old
bard, took a step forward, holding his harp and staring with luminous eyes. At Owain? Or someone else? Who
was
the man looking at?

Merlin.

The bard gazed at Owain's son, who was sitting on the grass and had unslung his own small harp from its bag. Merlin's eyes were tightly shut, and he silently fingered the strings as if to relieve the pressure of the situation.

Colvarth. Yes, of course. An idea buried deep within Owain sprang to life. A chance, though slim. Owain raised his voice. “My king! If you cannot forgive and if you cannot receive my sword, then in sorrow and grief I offer you my most cherished as a gift.”

“What can you offer me?” Uther said, not bothering to turn around. “There is nothing more precious than your life. Begone from here, or I will take it from you.”

“My king, please …”

Uther turned in a rage. “I said —”

“I offer you my
son
!”

The king faltered.

Like a partridge from the brush, Merlin burst upward and gripped Owain's shoulder tightly. “Tas,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”

“What I do is for your best. You'll be provided for when I'm gone.”

Worry lines knotted his son's brow. How had Merlin aged so much in these few short weeks? Would he be grateful for being placed where his needs would always be met? His future had always weighed heavily on Owain. One day his own arm would fail by injury or old age, and he dreaded to see his son a beggar.

But what
would
happen if Uther agreed? Owain prayed he would allow Merlin to serve Colvarth, as the two were so alike in spirit. Otherwise, his son would be forced to do menial chores at Uther's fortress in Kembry. Owain consoled himself that at least the work wouldn't be harder than smithing. If only they'd spoken about it. But he'd not fully foreseen this, and now it was too late.

“Your son?” Uther asked as he surveyed Merlin.

“Yes.”

“How is it he wears a torc of such majesty? And yet … and yet …”

The High King stepped closer and peered into Merlin's disfigured eyes. “Are you the son of Gwevian myr Atleuthun? Though you have suffered, you bear the face of that house.”

Pride coursed through Owain as Merlin answered the king with shoulders square and head high. “I am of that lineage, my lord. And though not wholly blind, I am told eyes are ever deceptive. I also know God's strong hand holds more boons than just sight.”

“Well said.” Uther answered. “And what are you called?”

“In the tongue of the Romans, I am named Merlinus, but my mother named me Merlin.”

“Where is your mother?” Uther stepped back and scanned the crowd. “Is she present? It's been many years since your father and I stood upon the great rock of her house.”

Merlin blinked a few times and then answered. “She is dead, my lord. Fourteen years.”

Uther looked to Owain for confirmation. Blinking back tears, Owain nodded in confirmation. The king closed his eyes, tightened his lips, and nodded.

“I see,” he said. “You have both suffered.”

The king limped back to his bench and sat down. “If you entered my service, young Merlin, what would you do? How could you serve me? You cannot —”

“Fight?” Merlin answered. “No, I cannot. But I am strong and can do tasks that many hands are unwilling to do. I can garden. I can haul wood and work a bellows. I can hoe out dung. I can —”

Colvarth stepped forward, and Owain's heart swelled with hope. The bard straightened as far as he was able, raised his thin hand, and in his slow, halting manner said, “Nay, son born of the wild-water … you are not fit for such tasks! You shall be a … bard. Wisdom shall grace your speech, and angels … dance upon your harp. Though now you see not, Merlin, yet in the darkness you shall … light the
path of Jesu for all the kings of the world. And though humble, yet in God's strength you shall … uphold your people!”

As if struck, Uther looked at his chief adviser. “What are you saying?”

“A prophecy, my king,” the bard said.

“Can you be sure of this?”

Sticking his bristly white beard out, Colvarth took one of his long fingers and tapped Uther on the chest. “So has the … voice of the Most High spoken. Do not doubt, my king. Though the young man is … beyond the usual age, yet I will teach him.”

At that moment the druidow made their appearance.

Preoccupied with the discussion, Owain hadn't heard their approach. They marched four abreast onto the green until all one hundred or so stood around the Druid Stone. They turned to face Uther and the assembly.

Owain looked for Mônda among them but did not see her. He had to find her soon to make sure that she was being cared for properly, even if it meant visiting the camp of the druidow. Though it seemed a futile effort, he had to try once more to persuade her to forsake her pagan ways and follow Jesu.

Mórganthu stood serenely at the front of the gathering wearing a green linen robe with a leather belt. Around his neck hung a large silver amulet shaped like a crescent moon lying with the horns pointing upward. Close by stood a half circle of seven druidow, including Anviv, and their robes were similar to Mórganthu's.

Uther's eyes opened wide, and he asked Colvarth, “My bard, what of this? Vortigern mentioned they were here with some rock, but so many? Do you know these?”

Colvarth stared at the druidow, his eyes neither moving nor blinking.

“Colvarth,” Uther said, shaking the old man gently. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Speak, man!”

“Ah, my king. I see the sickle … and it is sharpened for a harvest of woe!”

“But do you know them?”

“In your father's time, before he … claimed the Christ, I helped lead and dwelt among these druidow. Though I am not familiar with all, yet I know … Mórganthu, their leader, for his thirst for power and devotion to the … old gods is unsurpassed.”

“So he is the one you've told me about. What am I to make of this?” Uther asked.

“It is a challenge. The people … have them give fealty to you and your heir. Do it now before Mórganthu speaks and … tries to draw their hearts to himself. It is his way.”

Uther hesitated but finally went to his wife and spoke to her. She called for her eldest daughter, Eilyne, who brought the young Arthur.

The High King stood upon the bench above the people and called to them, arms outstretched in welcome. “Citizens and Britons! Hear your High King. I have come to visit you, not only to have your fortifications inspected, which aids in your protection” — the people turned and murmured assent — “but also to receive your fealty.”

Dwarfed by the large frame of Uther, the bard spoke next. “Each of you, come forward and kiss the leather of the High King's boot … and the boot of his son. And so receive his protection.”

The crowd mumbled and looked to one another. A few of them shrugged their shoulders and stepped forward. Until Mórganthu raised his voice.

“People … my people! Do not give fealty to the High King. He neither honors your gods nor worships them. All who call on his foreign god will be cursed.” Mórganthu struck the Stone with his staff, and from deep inside the blue light gleamed.